Arlathvhen
by Rose7
Summary: Good intentions lead to the end of the Inquisition and the subjugation of Thedas. Lost to time and bereft of purpose, how will the survivors cope?
1. Chapter 1

The world is gray. That isn't a metaphor; Cullen has never been much for them anyway. The world is, quite literally, gray. The trees, the ground, the path, the mist, even the mirrors haphazardly dotting the landscape. It is the opposite of the colorful visions that come to one drowning in lyrium, or the bleeding nightmares that come without it. It is like nothing he has ever seen or expected to see. Why should he? This is the inside of an _eluvian, _a device built by elves for elves. He isn't welcome; the monochromatic color scheme and the disorientation make that much clear.

Too irritable to stop now, he tells whatever elven gods may be listening that he would gladly vacate if he could. He has no desire to live in this colorless, joyless world that has no use for his kind. It is all he can do to keep from marching over and flinging himself at one of the mirrors. But he has no desire to go back, either. The world they left behind is as foreign to him as this one.

At least one thing hasn't changed: it was the Inquisitor who saved them. It was she who thought of the _eluvian_, shouted it to them over the din of mount and blade and flame destroying Skyhold. It was she who led the way into the ruins of the courtyard, flung open the door, stood before the enormous mirror for only a second's hesitation, and then whispered the words of her people to it until glass became mist. And into it they fled, the only survivors of the siege, perhaps of the entire Inquisition. Is she still the Inquisitor if they are all that remains?

_Well, if she is no longer our leader, someone forgot to tell her_, Cullen thinks with a swell of perhaps inappropriate pride. She leads them still here, the only member of their band who felt better (not worse) upon reaching the Crossroads, as the witch called them. She tells them the gray path lights to her steps, the gray grasses green at her touch. She claims she must walk at a snail's pace to stay close to them; somehow her strides are longer here. Cullen would wonder if she was delirious, if he wasn't already wondering that about himself. He stepped through a mirror into what seems to be the official vestibule to the Fade. He knows he is not dead, at least; the splitting headache and dizzy spells are enough to convince him of that.

If he has any doubts, he need only look at his equally suffering companions. Josephine walks with Leliana, leaning on her arm when she isn't retching. Cullen and Blackwall walk next to each other, a mutual unspoken agreement to keep the other from stumbling if the need arises (and it has, several times). Iron Bull (_The _Iron Bull, he reminds himself) supports Cassandra, despite her initial insistence that she was not affected by this place as the rest of the humans were. At first, her eyes dared anyone to remember this had happened later. Now, they look as dull and listless as everything else. No one thought to look for Cole, and since no one has mentioned him, Cullen assumes they have all come to the same conclusion: spirits can take care of themselves.

The rest of Skyhold's forces (what was left of them before he was forced to order the doors of the Great Hall barred in a hopeless attempt to buy a few more minutes) are surely gone, felled by the enemy or retreating into the mountains. He is confused for a moment by his warring thoughts. He hopes they did their duty and defended the cause. He hopes they lived to fight another day. Both cannot be true. And what is their cause now? They have started a war they cannot win, allowed themselves to be crushed, and left the world in the enemy's hands. Even if they escape this place, even if they rebuild their forces, can they wrest it back? Should they?

He tries to shake these doubts. He has doubted many things in his life (mages, templars, his own strength) but never the Inquisition, never her. But even though he has her back now, Cullen cannot help but feel that nothing will ever be the same. And he knows now, as he had no inkling then, the exact moment it all went wrong.

* * *

"I want to hold an _arlathvhen."_

She announces it as she strides into the room, no preamble or greetings. Josephine looks up from her vellum, Leliana from the window, Cullen from the table.

"An arla-what?" He speaks before thinking, revealing more of his boundless ignorance of her kind. But she only rolls her eyes at him as Leliana answers for her.

"An _arlathvhen," _she repeats, though it sounds no less foreign coming from an Orlesian tongue. "It is a meeting of the Dalish clans, held roughly every ten years."

"The Keepers of each clan exchange all the knowledge they have collected about their people since the last _arlathvhen,_ and remind themselves of what they already know, so it is never forgotten," Josephine clarifies, looking to the Inquisitor out of courtesy rather than any doubt she got it wrong.

Adriel nods. "I have knowledge to share."

"What?" Leliana asks. To the outside world, she looks and sounds eager for a juicy piece of gossip. To Cullen, who has stood in this room with her for hours on end, there is a hint of suspicion to it.

"The _vir'abelasan_," the Inquisitor replies, looking a little surprised anyone needs to ask. "Mythal. Her temple. The orb. And that's just for starters."

Cullen makes a conscious effort to stare ambivalently back at her, not join in the exchanging of looks happening between the ambassador and the spymaster to either side of him.

"Can any elf call an _arlathvhen_?" Josephine asks diplomatically (_as if she does things any other way, _Cullen thinks to himself.) "I thought that was decided by the Keepers."

"When they hear what I know, they'll come," Adriel assures them. Then she smirks. "And aren't I the Inquisitor? What's the point if I can't rally my own people to my side?"

"It is true we have relied only on your heritage to hold the Dalish clans' favor," Josephine concedes. "We should do more to reach out to them."

Leliana, as always, asks what the rest of them dare not. "Are you certain this is knowledge they wish to possess? Seeing the true face of one's ancestors, one's gods... that would be daunting for anyone."

The Inquisitor frowns prettily at her (_another word that needs no saying_, Cullen thinks.) "We wander Thedas as isolated nomads through the ruins of our civilization. We have always known our ancestors were flawed. And if the woman I met was truly Mythal, perhaps she was not a god after all."

Cullen cannot help himself now. "You don't think that would upset your people? To learn one of their gods isn't real?"

He receives a sly smile in response. "We have many gods, _shem_. What's one less? Besides, I thought everyone here believed in the Maker. Aren't all my gods false?"

More silence. Cullen knows what Josephine and Leliana are thinking because he is thinking it himself. She is the elf, not he. She is the Inquisitor, not he. Every move she's made thus far has been correct, every decision has brought them fortune, glory, influence, and ultimately victory. If she believes her people should know the truth, who are they to question her?

"I will contact the Keepers of each clan," Josephine finally says. "Starting with Lavellan, of course. Unless you'd prefer to do that yourself?"

"I'll write Keeper Deshanna," Adriel says, now fixing Cullen with a look straight from the demons themselves. "I have a few other things to tell her anyway."

The rest of the meeting is uneventful. Troop reallocation, the veracity of rumors, favors won and lost. As has become their habit, Josephine and Leliana exit together, leaving Cullen and the Inquisitor alone.

"An _arlathvhen,_" he says, immediately regretting his overly confident attempt to pronounce it correctly. "What made you think of it?"

Adriel shrugs. "Every time I met a new clan or walked an elven ruin, I wanted to share it. Sera didn't care, Solas already knew everything there is to know about elves and ruins..."

"You miss your people," Cullen surmises.

"I want to help my people," the Inquisitor corrects him. Then she smiles. "And I miss them. An _arlathvhen _seemed the easiest way."

"I don't know how easy it will be. Convincing every Dalish clan to attend, providing food and shelter for them all..."

She laughs. "We eat what we kill and sleep under the stars. Did you forget?"

How could he? Visions of her cavorting in a glen somewhere were his first terribly prejudiced fantasies. "If that is your wish, we will see it done."

"Thank you, Commander." She lets the silence linger just long enough that Cullen swears he can feelthe mood shift. "Didn't you have a dream that started like this?

He shakes his head, collecting papers to burn. "I'm sorry I ever told you that."

"I'm not," Adriel declares. "It makes these meetings much more interesting."

And uncomfortable, the first time he'd tried to make it through one after having had the dream, trapped across from her in armor and furs. "You're saying they weren't before? Quite a thing for the Inquisitor to admit."

She laughs, coming towards him, golden hair glittering in the candlelight. She is so happy these days, free and easy, as if nothing can trouble her now that Corypheus is dead. Not Varric or Dorian, returned to Kirkwall and Tevinter respectively; not Vivienne, now in her second act as Divine Victoria; not Solas or Sera, both vanished into the night (though she'd never gotten along with her fellow elves anyway). If she doubted before, if she ever questioned her role or their purpose, she doesn't now. Her confidence is inspiring (and more than a little attractive).

"These days, I think you find them as boring as I do," she says, trailing her hand around the table, up the haft of his sword and round his waist. "No battles to fight, no half-mad darkspawn to outwit..."

"The Inquisition's armies do serve other purposes, you know," he chides her. "As do I."

She steps back from him then, folding her hands behind her back and giving him a smile both patient and apologetic. "That I know very well."

Her moving away from him was not Cullen's intent (the opposite, actually). It isn't the first time she has failed to understand his human gruffness, he her elven candor. Or perhaps that belongs to her alone; his admiration of it has not improved his miserable attempts to imitate it. Still, he tries, because the joy he feels in her presence is real, even if the Templars and Honnleath never taught him to show it.

"Perhaps you need a reminder," he suggests, stepping towards her this time and drawing her near with one arm. "I have time."

"As do I," she answers, in perfect imitation, a delighted light in her eyes. "And there's a table right here."

"No," Cullen says firmly, though he concedes how one might not believe him when he kisses her once, twice, three times.

"Against the door," she suggests. "Then we won't ruin the table for you."

"I need the door to enter and exit the room. How am I to look at it, let alone touch it, in the future?"

The Inquisitor sighs, stepping back. She retains hold of his hand, however, and leads him out of the room and down the hall through Josephine's office (who is thankfully not in it). She releases his hand before they enter the main hall, as if that makes it any less obvious what they intend to do when she heads straight for her quarters and he follows.

But as soon as the door shuts behind them, she turns and ambushes him, throwing her arms about his neck. When he wraps his arms around her in turn, she smiles against his lips. Cullen decides that the stairwell to her room is acceptable; he only ever uses it to achieve this purpose anyway.

Adriel makes a noise somewhere between pleasure and frustration in his ear, her fingers tugging at the leather straps of his chestplate. "Must you wear all this?"

"I wish you would," Cullen replies, unmanned only for the briefest of seconds by the thought of something (anything) happening to her. Another second passes and the same thought drives his hands back to her tunic and his mouth to her neck.

She gives a breathless laugh as the fabric parts easily. "No, you don't."

He turns his attention to her trousers now. "No, I don't."

* * *

The world is still gray. No, grayer still, after the richness of that memory. The sudden contrast makes Cullen's eyes water, which makes him cough, which forces him (and thus the rest of the party) to stop.

"How far have we traveled?" Leliana asks. "Everything looks the same to me."

"That's because it _is _the same," Blackwall grumbles.

The Inquisitor does not correct him. She stares out at the never ending gray, wisps of hair blowing in the breeze.

"We must escape this place," Cassandra pants against the Qunari's chest, eyes closed. "We need food, medicine-"

"Only way out so far's the way we came," Blackwall replies. "Either the battle's still raging and they haven't found the blasted thing yet, or they've followed us in and are gaining with every step."

"You always did know how to cheer up a room, Blackwall," the Inquisitor finally says. But she does not turn around.

_The_ Iron Bull hocks up something foul and turns to spit away from Cassandra. "Ah, let 'em come. This place could use a few splatters of blood."

The former Seeker's face contorts, battling a wave of nausea. "You didn't see enough of it at Skyhold?"

"The Chargers are still there," the Qunari says dismissively. "They're probably sitting on the Inquisitor's throne, drinking out of a couple of elven skulls right now."

All eyes turn to the Inquisitor's back, though Bull still looks as though he's said nothing wrong. _Probably thinks he hasn't, _Cullen imagines.

But again, the elf before them doesn't move. "I'm sure you're right, Bull."

Such earnest statements are her defining characteristic. But this one rings so false that it sends a wave of despair rippling over them. Cullen cannot help but feel he catches the crest. He straightens up and moves to her side. Once there, he stands stupidly silent for what feels like an eternity. What does one say, in this situation? What does one say to _her_, in this situation? "Inquisitor, I-"

She suddenly lifts her hand to silence him. For a moment, he fears he's lost her again, but then she draws her bow. Bull practically dumps Cassandra onto a nearby rock in his hurry to join her. Cullen isn't entirely sure of his reflexes (or if anyone's weapons will be effective in this strange half-place), but he too draws his sword. They stay several paces behind the Inquisitor as she begins to stalk her prey. She closes in on a cluster of large bushes surrounding a great tree. She crouches low next to what Cullen assumes are green branches, takes a slow, careful breath. Then she whirls on whatever is behind the bush, arrow pointed, string taut-

A gale-force wind blasts forth from the bushes and knocks her and the rest of them off their feet. When Cullen opens his eyes again, he sees an elf standing over them. She is _not _gray, but as real and vibrant as he and his companions seem to be. Like most of her kind she is small and slight. The tattoos on her face mark her as Dalish too, though they are so different from Adriel's that even Cullen knows she must be of a different clan. Her hair is dark, her skin is pale, and her eyes are the largest and widest he has ever seen. The staff lashed to her back marks her as a mage. She seems familiar, somehow, but after so many years and so many phylacteries, Cullen is losing his eye for apostates.

"I'm sorry, but you really shouldn't sneak up on a person like that," the elf says, cross as any tutor. "Especially in a place like this, where you don't expect it."

The Inquisitor-Adriel-rises from the ground, her gaze still fixed on the elf. "Where do your allegiances lie?"

The elf's brow crinkles. "Allegiances? To myself, I suppose. Oh, and salt chews. Definitely those."

The rest of their party has crept forward to join them, Josephine struggling to look the diplomat despite her pallor.

"You're an interesting bunch, aren't you?" the elf comments, eyes roaming over the group. "Ooh, a Qunari! We didn't have one of those. No dwarves, I see, though."

"Who is we?" Cassandra is irritable.

"Hawke," the elf replies, as if they should have known. "Aveline, Fenris, Anders, Varric-he was our dwarf-Isabela-"

"Merrill," Leliana supplies. And now that he has a face to put with a name, Cullen does remember her. But after the Arishok was defeated, the Viscount of Kirkwall gave orders that Hawke's companions were to be considered exempt. Irony then that perhaps the least dangerous of her mages-her unassuming sister-should be the only one to have been forced to the Circle before that decision was made.

Merrill's face brightens. "You've heard of me? That's very flattering, unless it's not. Who are you?"

Blackwall gestures to the Inquisitor with his axe. "You don't recognize her?"

The elf shakes her head. "I don't, I'm sorry. But I don't know many elves. The ones I did weren't very nice to me."

Josephine stirs, getting to her feet. With her chin held high and her hands clasped politely in front of her, one almost doesn't notice the fog in her eyes. "This is the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. The woman who defeated Corypheus and saved the world from certain destruction."

"You're not going to mention all the dragons?" Bull objects. "Tell her about the dragons!"

"Oh, no need, that sounds very impressive as it is," the elf says, giving a small, nervous laugh. "Just one question: what is the Inquisition?"


	2. Chapter 2

_"Just one question: what is the Inquisition?"_

Countless blessings, countless losses, so many battles of the mind, body, and soul. Is this all it amounts to? That the Inquisition never even reached Kirkwall? And Varric is friends with this woman. Did he not think to mention his time with the Inquisitor at all? Couldn't he have spent even five minutes writing it down?

Perhaps Cassandra is being unfair. It is difficult to consider fairness when one feels as though one's head is being split open like an egg. Or one's entrails are being dragged behind them, leading a trail back to Skyhold. She manages civility, at least. "How have you not heard of the Inquisition?"

Merrill shrugs, though she at least seems to give it a moment of thought. "I've been busy. There is so much to see and learn here."

"There is?" Blackwall mutters.

"Is that not why you came?" the elven apostate asks, looking at the Inquisitor. "I did wonder why you brought so many humans. They aren't meant to be here. They can't experience it properly."

"You came here by choice, then," the Inquisitor says, skipping the irrelevant and getting right to the point. Cassandra has always felt they are kindred spirits in that way. "Could you also leave if you chose?"

"Of course," Merrill says. "It's my _eluvian, _isn't it?"

"Please-" Josephine clears the desperation from her throat before continuing, "-please, could you help us escape?"

The tattoos on the elf's face contort in confusion. "Why do you need my help? Just go back through the one you used to come in."

"We can't," the Inquisitor explains. "We were fleeing our enemies. For all we know, they might have used it themselves."

"Or destroyed it," Cullen murmurs.

"They wouldn't do that," the Inquisitor says. Her correction is quiet, but a correction nonetheless. The look on the Commander's face is straight out of one of Varric's books: crestfallen. Cassandra has too much respect for Cullen to call what she is feeling pity, but there is a definite pang.

Merrill still looks confused. "But they can't use it. Not unless they have the key. You didn't give them the key, did you?"

"Did you not hear her say we were fleeing a battle?" Blackwall snaps.

"Of course I did," the elven apostate snaps back. She has lifted her staff a little again. "But I don't just let anyone through an _eluvian, _or into Kirkwall, not unless I know they're a friend. You never mentioned who you were fighting in this battle."

"The elves," the Inquisitor replies, much quicker than Cassandra or anyone else expected, judging by the looks on their faces.

Merrill watches her, naturally suspicious. "What elves?"

"All of them," the Inquisitor replies. "All the clans, united, against us."

* * *

"_Garas, shem asha. Ma emma vhenan'ara!_"

Laughter. Elven laughter. Cassandra knows it is unworthy to suspect they are talking about her, but they did say one of the few elven words she knows-_shem-_and then followed it with immediate laughter as she passed. It is equally unworthy to snipe that even if she did have a retort, they likely would not understand her either. That seems to be their main pastime while they are here, laughing at everyone who is not Dalish. If they find the rest of the world so laughable, perhaps they should return to their forests and wagons and tents-

_Patience. _It is both a rebuke and an addition to her list of things to pray for, once she reaches Andraste. Patience to endure this invasion of Skyhold, which despite its size could not contain the elves who once owned it. Patience to learn what she can from them, even their gods, false as they may be. Patience to assist the Inquisition in this endeavor in any way she can. Patience to ensure the Inquisitor, Adriel, her friend, need never learn of her unworthy feelings.

"_Emma ir abelas. Shem asha, shem asha..._."

But surely both the Maker and the elven gods could agree that the Dalish could make a few concessions of their own. Every conceivable one has been made for them, right down to the changing of the banners to branch and bush and halla. It is a third unworthiness that the sight of them flying over Skyhold makes Cassandra uncomfortable, but honesty is just as much a virtue as patience. At last she makes her way through the courtyard to the door protecting their woefully inadequate chantry. But upon opening it, she finds it already occupied. An elf stands with her back to Cassandra, staring up at Andraste. She turns to look when she hears the clank and whine of the hinges.

_Patience. _"I'm so sorry. I did not mean to disturb you."

"You didn't," the elf reassures her. Unlike the Inquisitor, she has the same lilt to her speech as much of the Dalish do. But then, she is at least twice the Inquisitor's age, silvering hair wound about her head and in braids dropping over her ears. "I was admiring Her."

Try as she might, Cassandra cannot mask the surprise in her voice. "You were admiring Andraste?"

The elven woman nods. "She was a slave first, was she not? And now look at Her." She does, indeed, look back. Cassandra gently closes the door and steps forward to join her.

"She suffered much to bring us back to the Maker," she murmurs. Even in the presence of an elf, the sight of Her is soothing.

"I wonder if our gods are also displeased with us," the elf says. "Perhaps we are waiting for our own Andraste."

Cassandra would hardly have been a candidate for Divine if she did not say it. "Perhaps Andraste calls to you Herself."

The elf laughs. "And here, we must draw the line." She leans on the wood Cassandra has just noticed is too tall to be a cane. "You are the Seeker, are you not? Cassandra Pentaghast?"

Cassandra nods. "Cassandra is adequate. I left all other ties behind when I joined the Inquisition."

"Called the Inquisition," the elf corrects. "It was you who started this, yes?"

It seems the elves are well-informed. "Indeed. May I ask who you are?"

The elf inclines her head. "Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan. Keeper Deshanna is more than adequate."

Cassandra lifts an eyebrow. "You are leader of the Inquisitor's clan?"

Deshanna sighs. "The Inquisitor. You'll find it hard to compel us to call her that."

The elf's distaste raises her hackles again. "Why? It is what she is."

"It is not," Deshanna declares. "Not the girl we knew. That girl is as like to lead armies as I am to lead a chant."

And here Cassandra thought the Maker had sent her a message. "The Inquisitor does not lead our armies. Andraste works through her to guide our cause."

The elf smiles. "You mean she tells everyone what to do. Perhaps she is not as ill-suited to the role as I thought."

"Is there something more useful you think she could be doing? Hosting all the Dalish clans in Thedas, maybe?"

"Seeker," Deshanna chides, shaking her head. "You must not be offended. A Keeper is mother to her clan. I know my girl, and I must judge the life she has chosen as harshly the one who carried and birthed her would. Especially in her absence."

In the interests of diplomacy, Cassandra allows her curiosity to get the better of her. "What do you mean?"

The elven woman first gestures to the door. Once opened, she gestures for Cassandra to pass first, and then joins her to walk through the courtyard.

"Adriel, as she will always be known to me, was officially under the care of her aunt and uncle," she says. "But with six of their own to care for, it is more truthful to say she was raised by the clan."

"But you say you did not carry or birth her. What of that woman?"

"The birth was hard. Elanil asked us to save the child first, and we obliged. She did not survive."

Cassandra has been accused of being blunt before. But surely her blunders seem tame in comparison to the simple way the Dalish speak of such things. "I'm sorry, I should not pry. Nor is it your story to tell, I imagine."

Deshanna shrugs. "I am Keeper. All stories are mine to tell."

Well, as long as she has permission- "What of the Inquisitor's... of Adriel's father?"

The elf nods as if she expected this question. "Tethir was always a dark, brooding sort. He took the loss hard. On the next hunt, he did not return. Some say the bear was simply too strong. Others say he let the bear have him."

To lose a loved one in such a way brings up memories Cassandra would rather not revisit at the moment. "No wonder she has never spoken of it."

"To speak of it is to cast a shadow, and Adriel has always followed the sun," Deshanna replies, then laughs. "She loves hearing it, though. It was her favorite story as a child. 'The romance,' she'd sigh. To be so naive..."

"Forgive me, but I think you give her too little credit. The Inquisitor is far from naive." But then, wasn't it naive to defy the Chantry and call the Inquisition in the first place?

"Not in the ways of the world, no," the elf concedes, "but in her hopes, her dreams, her visions of the future."

"Once it seemed impossible to believe Corypheus would be defeated, yet here we are."

Deshanna's staff clicks on the stone when she stops walking. "Yes, here we are. On the eve of the first _arlathvhen _not called by the Keepers, held in an ancient elven keep controlled by the Inquisition." She raises a hand before Cassandra can object. "Please don't mistake me. We live as we do by choice. But you must see how the circumstances are... unsettling."

_Insulting_, Cassandra translates. "Do you suspect the meeting will go poorly?"

The elven woman looks out at the courtyard. "I suspect Inquisitor Lavellan has forgotten that not all clans are as open-minded as her own. I suspect she herself does not fully comprehend what she has seen. I suspect sharing what she thinks she knows will raise far more questions than answers."

"Shall I take that as a yes?"

Deshanna steps closer. "She counts you among her friends," she says in a low voice. Cassandra does not know if it is for her protection or someone else's.

"I ask you," the elf continues, "also as her friend: watch over her. She did not choose this path. And I do not believe, as you do, that it chose her."

The only polite thing to do is nod. So, Cassandra does.

Deshanna nods back, as if some accord has been reached. "Well, then. Will you take me to her? I am hopelessly lost within walls."

"Of course. Please, follow me."

They head through the great hall, through the painted chamber Solas left behind (but if the elven woman wonders at the figures on the walls, she does not slow her pace to study them further). They cross the rampart leading to the tower where the Commander of the Inquisition's forces works. Cassandra stops just outside the door. Knowing what she knows of the relationship between the Inquisitor and Cullen (_and do the elves know of it_, she wonders now), it would perhaps be best to knock first. So, she does. "Commander?"

There is a pause long enough that Cassandra considers her decision to knock very wise indeed. Finally, she hears the commander's voice. "Yes, come in."

When she opens the door, Cullen and the Inquisitor are standing next to each other behind the Commander's desk, enough space for a host of Exalted between them. At the sight of them, Cullen actually looks nervous, but the Inquisitor's face lights up. "Keeper!" She hurries to embrace the elf.

"_Aneth ara, ma vhenen_," Deshanna says. "You look fat as any flat ear."

"_Shem_ food," the Inquisitor-Adriel-laughs. "You'll see when you try it." She turns back towards Cullen, leading her keeper to the opposite side of his desk. Cassandra must admit that there is something endearing about the shameless pride on her face. Endearing, and naive.

"Keeper Deshanna," the Inquisitor says with a sweep of her arm, "may I present Commander Cullen?"

Cullen promptly extends his hand. "Madam."

Deshanna gamely shakes it. "I understand you command her armies," she murmurs, cocking her head towards Adriel.

The commander nods. "We've only the one, but yes."

"And you are also her lover."

Cassandra wills every muscle in her face to remain still. Cullen makes it difficult, the way his eyes flare and his jaw drops a little. The Inquisitor holds the back of her hand to her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her smile.

Deshanna glances at each of them in turn. "I'm sorry, was that supposed to be a secret?"

* * *

"Well?" Cassandra can bear it no longer. Merrill has been staring at them for at least a full minute.

"Well, what?" the elven apostate blurts. "I'm supposed to believe the clans agreed on something? They don't agree on anything! Except for blood magic, of course-"

"You mean to say you've heard nothing of the war either?" Leliana asks. "How long have you been in here, exactly?"

"Oh, it can't have been more than a few hours," the elf says, shaking her head dismissively. "Perhaps a few days, at most. Time gets away from me in here."

"Perhaps it's been longer than you think," the Inquisitor suggests. "Long enough for everything I've told you to be true."

Merrill's large eyes (_rather like a startled doe, _Cassandra thinks) roam over their party again. "You must be quite a villain, then, to have every elf in Thedas after you."

"I didn't mean to make them my enemy," the Inquisitor replies. Again, Cassandra admires how she keeps what must be overwhelmingly strong emotions out of it. "I want peace."

The elven apostate lifts an eyebrow. "And if I let you out, through my _eluvian_, that's what you'll do? Make peace?"

"I'll try," the Inquisitor replies. Her voice does waver a little here. Still, Merrill only stares in silence at her.

"Come on," Bull cajoles. "I'll let you touch my horns?"

"Deal," the elf immediately agrees. Cassandra finds herself eying the Qunari's horns, trying to see the appeal. They are remarkably reflective for how little he seems to bathe-

"This way," Merrill continues cheerfully, turning on her heel and heading off. Leliana takes up Josephine, Blackwall and Cullen nod to each other, and before Cassandra can protest, Bull has thrown her arm about his again and is dragging her forward. The Inquisitor walks at an even pace with them all, watching the elven apostate the whole way. Finally, Merrill reaches a mirror which looks no different from any other mirror in this place.

"One at a time, and do step aside to make room once you're through," she instructs them. "I don't live in a mansion like Hawke does."

"So when we step through this _eluvian, _we'll be inside your home, in Kirkwall?" the Inquisitor asks.

"Yes," Merrill replies with confidence. Then her nose crinkles. "Unless I've been robbed. Then we'll be wherever the thieves took it. Did I remember to set an enchantment on the door? I think I did. So it's not likely."

"Andraste's tits," Blackwall mutters.

"Varric is in Kirkwall," Josephine manages to say. "Perhaps we could find him."

"Let's get to Kirkwall first," Cullen says, nodding at Merrill. The elven apostate lifts her staff and speaks in elvish. As its cousin did in Skyhold, the mirror begins to shimmer and glow until it resembles nothing so much as a pool of water-a vertical pool of water. Cullen goes first, then Josephine (after Leliana sees she is sure of her footing), followed by the spymaster herself. Bull nods the Inquisitor through, then releases Cassandra to pass on her own, leaving him and the elven apostate to follow after her.

Exiting this place proves no kinder than entering it. All the sights, sounds, and smells of the real world seem to flash before her eyes until she finds herself in a room nearly as drab as the one she just left. Brown is the prevailing color here, brown wood walls and brown wood floors. There is a layer of dust on everything, cobwebs in the corners. Its similarities to wherever they just were does not help to alleviate her disorientation. It is several moments before Cassandra can stop blinking and look up to see her companions around her.

"Oh," Merrill groans, nudging a dead rat with her toe. "I'm usually a decent housekeeper, I swear it."

"It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years," Blackwall murmurs, looking around.

"I do," the elven apostate insists. "I live here." She takes a trinket out of Bull's hands and irritatedly swipes at the dust on it. "I just... haven't been home in a while."

"You have several letters here," Josephine remarks, bending gingerly to retrieve a pile of sealed envelopes thrust under the door. She passes half to Leliana, who studies them more intently.

"Many of these are from Varric," she informs Merrill.

"What do they say?" The elf is distracted, trying to decide how to make her long unmade bed.

Leliana tears a letter open and begins reading, "Nine fifty one Dragon. Dear Daisy, this has become a fun yearly tradition, writing you a letter I know you'll never answer-"

"Nine fifty one?" the Inquisitor interrupts.

Leliana looks back down at the letter in her hands, brow furrowing. "Perhaps he just miswrote the date," she suggests. "Or he was drunk. This is a rather maudlin letter."

"Open the others," the Inquisitor instructs.

Leliana obliges, reading the dates as she does. "Nine forty three... nine forty seven... nine forty four... nine fifty-"

Cassandra's lungs begin to feel as empty as the pit in her stomach. Cullen snatches one of the letters from Leliana's hands to see for himself. Bull shakes a bottle to see if there is anything left in it, then cracks it open and downs the very small amount of liquid remaining.

"Perhaps he miswrote it five times," Merrill offers, finally looking at if she exists in the same new and terrifying world as they do.

"Nine fifty one Dragon," Josephine repeats. "But... but that would mean-"

"Ten years," Blackwall supplies. "We've been in there for ten years."


	3. Chapter 3

_"Ten years," Blackwall supplies. "We've been in there for ten years."_

Impossible. Ten years without the Inquisition? Ten years of the Game come and gone? What is the state of Thedas? What is the state of the Montilyets? Who has taken the reins in Josephine's absence? Yvette? Laurien? Antoine? What manner of disaster should she be prepared for? Surely they've presumed her dead, had the wills updated, erected a memorial, one would hope-

"Bullshit," Bull declares. "Ink and paper don't mean anything."

Despite everything, Josephine cannot help correcting him. "They mean a great deal, actually."

The Qunari scoffs, swiping carelessly at the pile of letters. "Probably just some new crap story he wanted the elf to read." He glances around the room. "He makes everyone do that, right?"

"It certainly looks as though ten years have passed in here," Leliana says, lifting the lid of a long crusted pot.

"This can't be possible," Cassandra insists, shaking her head. "It has been at most a day or so since we fled Skyhold. We haven't aged at all."

"When did you enter your _eluvian_?" the Inquisitor asks Merrill.

The elven mage's eyes look even larger. "Earlier today, I swear it! Or... no, perhaps yesterday. Three days, at the most. It wasn't ten years ago!"

She sounds as shaken as Josephine feels. Sometimes she envies those who are allowed to show it.

"We will learn nothing by remaining in these rooms," she says. Her hands feel a bit lost without quill and board. "We must venture into Kirkwall and find allies."

Blackwall snorts. "What allies?"

"Varric, for one," the Inquisitor says.

"I left many friends in Kirkwall myself," Cullen adds.

Blackwall looks unimpressed. "The elves overran the Inquisition and Skyhold. Who knows what else they control now? A dwarf and some Templars-human, presumably-may not be the most useful of friends."

Cassandra tosses a hand in the air. "What do you suggest we do? Remain here for another decade?"

"I suggest we not go parading the Inquisitor about Kirkwall is all. I suggest you learn from a man who's been on the run."

"Disguises?" Leliana surmises. Blackwall nods.

"Well, I don't have anything that will fit you," Merrill says, folding her arms over her chest.

"No need," Leliana says cheerfully. She turns to Cullen first. "Leave the armor. Give Blackwall the furs and take his doublet."

The two men glance warily at each other and then begin to obey. Most present have already seen Cullen naked one way or another, but Blackwall's solid chest is a surprise. Who knew what he was hiding under all that wool? Leliana always did have a way of finding the positive in an otherwise dreary situation.

Cullen recoils in disgust when the doublet is handed over. "When was the last time you bathed?"

"Ten years, same as you," Blackwall replies. He twists the furs about until they cover most of his chest and back. Josephine is strangely disappointed.

Leliana hands him a dagger. "Trim your beard as well." She glances at Cullen. "It would help if you had one."

"No, it wouldn't," the Inquisitor says. Her smiles are rare these days, but rarer still are the ones meant only for the commander, the one she gives him now.

"It would help if he weren't so damned pretty," Blackwall says, hacking off the right side of his beard with one firm slice.

"No problem," Bull chuckles. He lifts his boot and drags his fingers across the heel. They come up with a hunk of mud, which the Qunari plants in the palm of his other hand. He mixes a truly disgusting amount of spit into it, and then reaches out and smears some on Cullen's face.

"Much better," Leliana says, before the commander can object. She turns her gaze to Cassandra. "Leave your armor as well. I think you and Josie are about the same size."

Josephine does not mind the pained look the former Right Hand gives her clothes. Despite her usual poise, she is fairly certain she is making the same face. Together they step behind a nearby screen and begin undressing.

"I notice you have yet to propose a disguise for yourself," Cassandra mutters.

Leliana laughs. "I wouldn't be a very good spymaster if people could recognize me, would I?" Her attention turns to the Inquisitor, holding her chin thoughtfully. "We don't want to hide that you're an elf..."

"But we do want to hide that I'm me," Adriel finishes. She stands motionless as Leliana comes over and begins expertly plucking pins from her hair.

"Oh, that's lovely," Josephine can't help remarking when she emerges from behind the screen. The Inquisitor's golden hair now swoops fashionably over her brow, hiding the lattice of branches that make up her _vallaslin._

"Sometimes I do miss getting dressed up every day," the spymaster sighs.

"Do me, do me," Bull deadpans.

"It's probably best you stay here," Cullen says, not without a certain amount of visible satisfaction. "There were no Qunari in Kirkwall when I left, by law."

Their own Qunari shrugs, dropping down into a chair opposite the _eluvian _and resting his hand on the top of his mace. "Fine by me. Any elves come outta that thing, boom."

"There," Blackwall murmurs, replacing the dagger and turning around. He has trimmed his beard so close that it more closely resembles stubble now. Again, he's revealed something Josephine didn't know he had: a handsomely shaped jaw.

The false Warden notices everyone staring and shifts uncomfortably on his feet. "Much uglier, but not recognizable."

"I like it," Josephine tells him.

Blackwall barely makes eye contact with her. "Thank you, my lady." He clears his throat. "_The Hanged Man_, was it? That tavern Varric likes?"

Leliana nods. "We should go in separate groups. You and Cullen, me, Josie, and Cassandra, and the elves together."

"Are you sure you need me?" Merrill asks, staring worriedly at her chair creaking under Bull's weight. "Maybe I should stay here-"

"You too," Leliana insists, grasping the elf's shoulders and pointing her towards the door. "You are still Varric's friend. Us, on the other hand..."

* * *

The ale seems satisfactory. The decor ignored, which is sometimes better than being noticed. The food, however, is mostly untouched. Josephine cannot figure where she went wrong. She discussed the menu at length with the Inquisitor and all other elves (Dalish or not) at Skyhold, procured the meat directly from hunters, gave the cooks precise, written instructions. She's tasted it herself, and while she cannot claim to know how it _should _taste, none of the dishes were offensive or inedible-

"We eat what we kill." The Inquisitor startles her. She is standing next to Josephine (perhaps has been for Maker knows how long), with her hands clasped behind her back and the "demon" smile on her face (or so she's heard Cullen call it, through the wall that separates her office from the stairs to the Inquisitor's quarters.)

"I'm so sorry," she tells the elven woman. "What did you say?"

"We eat what we kill," Adriel repeats, "to honor Andruil. They aren't offended, they'd just rather stay on Her good side."

"Oh." This woman has become her friend, so Josephine does not feel the need to mask her slight irritation. "That would have been useful to know before I arranged this feast."

The Inquisitor shrugs. "I thought we'd might as well try. I certainly find it much easier than stalking a hare every evening."

And now her friend has made her laugh. This Dalish elf's uncommon curiosity about everything and everyone who is not Dalish is the only thing that gives Josephine hope that the actual _arlathvhen_ will go smoothly. She cannot even count on everyone having been fed. "Do you know all of the clans present?"

Adriel shakes her head. "Until I became Inquisitor, the only clan I knew was my own. Even now, the only other I know are the Luthvae, from the Exalted Plains. They do it on purpose, to make it as hard as possible to wipe us out."

Josephine has been a diplomat so long that she does not even feel the urge to voice her opinions of such decisions anymore. "Shall I run through them for you?"

The Inquisitor nods, glancing around as if she plans to match each cluster of elves to their description. "Please do."

Josephine nods her forward as she begins to walk the great hall. "Not all of the clans came, naturally," she explains. "We contacted only the ones we knew of and did not attack our messengers on sight, and even so, we cannot guarantee these are all the clans that exist in Thedas. But there are several prominent ones present." She juts her chin first at a group of elves near the fire, long hair and long noses looking down at everyone. "Ralaferin, who were the first to answer our invitation. They consider themselves in possession of more knowledge about your people than the rest of the clans combined. If they aren't impressed by what you tell them, they'll at least appreciate the chance to show off."

The Inquisitor snorts. "They're in for quite a shock."

Josephine points her quill towards another group, these with dark hair and pale faces. "Alerion, from Nevarra. They lost their First in an attack and traded their remaining mage to another clan in the last _arlathvhen_, so they're hoping to procure another." She flips her hand to point at the other side of the room. "Virnehn, though the entire clan consists of the six you see there. I am not entirely certain they did not come here to seek revenge. Most of the clan was wiped out by the demon Imshael, who if you'll recall was released by our own Ser Michel de Chevin."

"I hope he's lying low," the Inquisitor murmurs.

"Cullen sent him to Suledin Keep before the first clans even arrived," Josephine assures her, smiling and nodding in return to their keeper. "Your own clan Lavellan, of course. Sabrae, also of the Free Marches. There is a rumor that their former Keeper, Malethari, died under suspicious circumstances."

"Keepers tend to live very long lives, longer than most of us," Adriel comments. "We assume because of everything they know. When a Keeper dies at her age, it's more than suspicious."

Josephine has already written it down. "Perhaps we could investigate the matter for them?"

"Perhaps," the Inquisitor agrees.

Finally they come to the group standing nearest to the throne. "Brethil, who came all the way from Ferelden. They're causing quite the stir just by showing up. Their First is not a mage."

Adriel lifts an eyebrow. "Not a mage? What are they, then?"

"She," Josephine corrects, looking at the elven woman herself now. "Her name is Zanna. As far as I've been able to gather, she's just an average member of the clan. She technically shares the title of First with her brother, Daryth, who _is _a mage. But even so, she has tongues wagging."

"When your greatest fear is to repeat the past, there's nothing more terrifying than something new."

Josephine does still feel the urge to laugh, but she is far too professional to let it show. "The Keepers will gather here in the great hall tomorrow. I assume there is some kind of protocol to these meetings, but I couldn't get anyone to share it with me, not even Deshanna."

"I promise to take good notes;" the Inquisitor says, grinning. "This will be my first one too."

"No food," Josephine promises. Then, because this woman is her friend: "Unless they take a break to hunt?"

* * *

The journey from Merrill's home to this _Hanged Man _is a short one. Josephine had thought she knew all there was worth knowing about Kirkwall-its former life as Emerius, the Qunari uprising, every Viscount back to the Orelsian liberation-but she has come to realize none of that is as useful as having reviewed a simple map.

"You've both been here before," she says to her companions. "Does it look as though ten years have passed?"

Leliana shrugs. "A question for Cullen or Merrill. I never lived here."

"It sometimes felt as though I lived here, after a long day with Varric," Cassandra sighs. "It does not seem the elves have conquered the city, at any rate."

Josephine must agree with her there, though there are signs of decay. Graffiti on the walls, suspiciously pulverized statues, boarded up shops with broken windows-or perhaps those are simply the characteristics of Lowtown.

"It doesn't seem there are any elves here at all," Leliana murmurs. Only someone who has known her as long as Josephine has would notice the slight downward angle to the left side of her mouth.

When they arrive at _The Hanged Man, _Blackwall and Cullen are waiting outside for them. "He's not here," Blackwall tells them. "The Inquisitor and the elf went inside anyway."

"Adriel," Leliana chides him. "It does me no good to disguise her if you keep throwing the title about."

"He must have other friends here," Cassandra says, looking at Josephine. Just for a moment, she allows the stress of the situation to take hold. Does no one else bother to keep track of these things?

"He had many, once," she answers once she has composed herself. "But Hawke is with the Wardens, her elven paramour in Tevinter, the pirate... pirating. The guard captain-Aveline, I think-is the only one known to still live here. Well, known as of ten years ago."

"I corresponded with her on a few matters," Cullen says. He swipes irritably at his mud and Qunari spit-slathered face. "I would need to not look like a raving lunatic before I approached her, though."

"We should go in and drink, for appearance's sake," Leliana says, nodding towards the tavern door.

"Or for any number of good reasons," Blackwall mutters. He and Cullen make it inside, Cassandra is in the doorway, and Josephine's hand is on the door before they are interrupted.

"Red?"

Leliana is behind her, and waits a moment before turning to look with the rest of them. Standing before them is Varric. Still sturdy, still clean-shaven, still a dwarf. But his hair is longer (are there licks of grey near the temples?) and there are a pair of glass pieces balanced on his nose. He is carrying a few books and papers under his arm.

"Varric," Leliana replies.

To everyone's surprise, this response causes the dwarf to shout and jump back, throwing all his books and papers into the air. "Dragon shit! You're real?"

"Of course I'm real," the spymaster says, furrowing her brow at him. "Are you all right?"

"No!" the dwarf says, bent over his knees. "I don't expect my fond hallucinations of old friends to talk back to me."

"Hallucinations?" Cassandra repeats, pushing her way past Josephine.

Varric only looks more disturbed at the sight of them. "Ruffles too? Who else do you have in there? Blondie? Hawke's dog?"

"Why are you so surprised to see us?" Josephine asks, hoping he'll compose himself a little before the people around them start to stare.

"Because you're supposed to be dead," Varric answers. "All of you."


	4. Chapter 4

_"Because you're supposed to be dead," Varric answers. "All of you."_

Not as shocked as he seems. The shock is a mask. His heart feels full to bursting, fat and warm, so happy to see them all alive. Friends. Cole finally understands what they are. Varric is a friend.

"Dead?" Cassandra. Can't help thinking of Anthony when she hears the word. "Why would you think us dead?"

"They sent your burned corpses on a tour of Thedas." Sarcasm, the worst mask of all. "None of you have been heard from in ten years. What else was I supposed to think?"

Nightingale, they call her. Always watching, always singing in the dark. Loyalties do not last ten years. Old news has no value. Without eyes and ears, how will she play the Game? She is more frightened than any of them. "Burned corpses? You know better than that, Varric."

"I thought I did. Then a year passed, and another, and so on until I thought maybe I didn't." Masks slipping, sighs as if put upon to compose himself. "Now really, who else made it out?"

"Cullen, Blackwall, Bull-"

"Should we be talking about this in the street?" Josephine, nervous. Despite everything, misses her ruffles. Pretty things are a comfort. Her reward for her worries.

"Why not? They don't own Kirkwall, or the Free Marches, for that matter." Yet. But he won't say that, not to his friends.

"Still, we should join the others." Knows how to give orders, also knows that isn't how to lead. If mortals have gifts, Cassandra's is self-awareness. "If only so you don't repeat yourself."

Dwarven smile. Can't hold it in, doesn't want to. "But I love repeating myself."

Cassandra wants to smile too, but can't. Too bitter, too sweet. How Cole longs to help her, longs to help them all. But he promised Adriel, no forgetting, not for her or her friends. "A fine pair of spectacles. Be sure you don't forget your cane."

"They're for reading. Excuse me for aging. It has been ten years, even if none of you look it. Most human women age horribly, so whatever it is you're doing, I'd bottle and sell it."

Leliana is impatient. Must know more, must know _now, _but must not show it. She beckons Varric towards the door. "The explanation's best heard with some ale."

"Oh-" Soft Antivan hand on his arm. "You should know before you go in. We found your friend, Merrill. She's inside, with Adriel."

Bodies in the water, ears slashed, glassy downtrodden eyes. No more warmth, only the icy chill of panic. Cole used to have trouble understanding this mortal fear, not anymore. He remembers very well what it feels like to die.

Quickened heart, rushing blood, hands reaching for the crossbow he left at home. He just got his friends back. Will he lose them so quickly again? "You sent the elves inside first? Ancestors... hurry!"

* * *

Tracing the curls on little Lilith's face. Seeing the halla's fawn breathe, get to its feet. The sinking aravel, all those herbs. Until now, there were mortals, and there were spirits. Cole is now realizing mortals come in as many shapes and sizes as spirits do, and consider such distinctions important. Elves are different from humans. Elves sleep under the stars. They drink from the river. They eat what they kill. They are the last, and never again shall they submit. If only they knew-if all mortals knew-how alike they really were. Cole tried to tell some once, but there is only one of him, and so many of them. And he is too fascinated by the elves' joys and sorrows, their words, like songs being whispered in his head.

_A bath in the river, before they pack the aravels. Maybe Elish will be watching from the bushes again. Thinks maybe she wouldn't mind._

But then, one sorrow (and it is always sorrow) rises above the others. Cole leaves the keep, moves through the courtyard and over the ramparts and through the trees until he finds Clan Brethil, camped among the rocks a few yards away. Most are asleep, fitful, worried for what comes with the dawn.

_The water is cool, clear, alive with green and gills. She wonders how much longer she can get away with it. The women bathe together. Children bathe with their mothers. But she is in between, not quite a girl anymore, not quite a woman._

Two elves still awake, sitting by a fire. Dark hair, tanned skin. Their _vallaslin _crawl jaggedly over their otherwise smooth, round faces. Siblings. Brother and sister. More love between them than most _in _love. Daryth, the younger. Zanna, the elder. Even this far outside Skyhold, they speak only their own tongue, though like all their kind they know only half of it. Even broken elvish is better than the common tongue.

_Snap of a branch. She smiles and bites her lip. It could be a halla, of course, but what if it's Elish? She will be old enough to marry soon. Maybe she'll marry him. It all depends on what he says when he comes out._

"All these _shemlen_." Daryth spits into the fire as if it was a curse. "Flat ears, dwarves, Qunari even..." He pokes the fire with the end of his staff, irritable. "I don't like it."

Zanna's voice is soft and gentle, but regrets she has to be. What became of her cheerful little brother? Where did this man with his endless font of anger come from? But of course, she knows. "We knew before we even came here it would be an insult to the gods. Keeper Avorel is right. We need to be here anyway, to see what happens."

"And what do you think will happen?"

"The same thing she does, if she's half a brain. Which she must, to have all this."

_Several minutes go by, and still Elish doesn't appear. Zanna can hear the leaves rustling, knows he's there. Maybe he just needs some encouragement. "I know you're there, Elish," she calls. "I'm going to be finished soon. If you're going to come out, you should do it now."_

Daryth rolls his eyes. "Well, for your brother with apparently less than half a brain, would you tell me what that is?"

Zanna shrugs, rubbing her arms against the cold. "Some will believe her, most won't. The ones who don't will either laugh, rage, or say they do for fear of offending her."

"But why do this? What does she want the ones who believe her-or say they do-for?"

His sister frowns. Not so sure the Inquisitor wants anything at all. Not so sure any of this was her idea. Not so sure she should tell her brother that, doesn't want to remind him. On the other hand, it isn't as if a moment goes by without them thinking of it.

_The bushes finally part, but it is not Elish. It's a _shem, _fat and hairy. Zanna tries to suck under the water, remembers too late the river is shallow, tries to cover with her arms instead. The _shem _laughs. "Oh, Elish can see, but we can't, eh?"_

_'We' sends a chill down her already wet, already cold spine. Another _shem, _no less ugly, steps onto the opposite bank. If she had an escape, that was it, and now it is gone. They all stand frozen for a moment: Zanna in the water, two _shems _to either side, staring her down._

_She jerks towards the shore, and it all happens very quickly from there. The _shemlen _come stomping into the water, laughing, growling, shouting their _shem _words. She kicks, she throws her fists, she thrashes, she screams, but almost embarrassingly quickly, they have wrestled her down onto the rocks. She is already bruised, and they haven't even started-_

"I don't know. I suppose that's why we're here, to find out."

Daryth frowns harder. "It makes my skin crawl, all of it. _Shemlen _at an _arlathvhen._"

"They won't be _at _it." Will they? Could the Inquisitor insist on having some of her companions present? Feels lightheaded just thinking about being trapped in a room with them, especially the bearded one-

_The _shem's _shaggy black beard feels like bark against her skin. "Please," she says, as she was taught. "Please, what if there should be a child?" Puts some _shems _off, the women said. Not these. They laugh, say they'll be gone by then. One holds her while the other thrusts. Like a knife splitting her in two. This, then, is her first. It is over quickly, at least. _

_But then the other turns her over, mashes her face into the ground while the first staggers to hold her, pants still around his ankles, still panting. "There will be no child this way, love," he tells her, thinks himself clever. If the first was a knife, this is an axe, cleaving her up the middle. She means to get up and run after he is done, but finds she cannot move her legs. The two _shems _are investigating her clothes now, find her daggers. They look from blade to her as if doing sums in their heads._

_"Please," she begs again. "Please, I will tell no one." She closes her eyes to show them._

_"I don't need a pack of knife ears coming upon me in my field," the second grumbles to the first, who is stroking his beard. Then he snaps his fingers._

_"Take her to the inn," he says. "Old Crifter hasn't had an elf in months. He'll pay dearly, if we know how to sell."_

_The other chuckles. "I've no complaints."_

"The Lavellans are all queer," Daryth declares. "They speak to the _shems _more than their own people."

Why shouldn't they? The _shems _have raised up one of their own. They have protected them from annihilation. The gods bless some clans, and not others. Zanna gave up trying to understand why long ago.

"The _shem _commander... the one in the furs..." She doesn't know what she's trying to say, doesn't even know what she suspects. "The way he watches her..."

_Old Crifter does pay. Men come every night. Some alone, some in groups. Young, old, cruel, kind-it makes no difference. She weeps for them all. Old Crifter comes one night, holds a blade to her throat. "Do you want to die?" Despite everything, she doesn't. "Then stop your whinging, or I'll stop it for you. Understand?'" Almost nods, but remembers at the last second. She hasn't wept since._

_What feels like a hundred years later, she is lying in wait one night when she hears commotion downstairs. Screams, gurgles, a noise very close to what men make when they finish. The door bursts open, and it is Daryth. He runs to her, gathers her in his arms, weeps all the tears she's long since lost, tells her they never stopped looking and he's so sorry it took so long. He carries her out of the room and down the steps she's only seen once before. Her people fill the inn, weapons drawn, having fought the _shemlen _just to get her back. Daryth tells her not to look at the bodies, but she does. She wants to. The blood glitters like rubies. It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen._

"Zanna." Daryth has reached across the fire, is holding her hand. "Does he frighten you? Has he threatened you in any way?"

"No." Will he ever step out of that inn and back into the rest of the world? Will she? "I just mean... we shouldn't assume this is all her doing. That she planned all this, that she even wanted it. And the _shem... _we need to know who Adriel Lavellan is. Not the Inquisitor."

Despite all his rage, would never act without her consent. Pats her hand, marvels at her composure again. This is why she is First. This is why she will be Keeper. This is why she has killed more _shemlen _than the rest of Clan Brethil combined. "We should sleep. If there's one thing all the clans agree on, it's having these be early." Zanna nods, they both retire to their tents.

Cole knows this form is not real, knows he does not actually breathe or need to breathe in order to continue using it, but he struggles for air anyway. The weight of such sorrow! He follows her into the tent, ready to help her, ready to make her forget. But once there, he finds an all too common truth. Can't. All she is now, all she has. If she forgets, there's nothing left of her. He thinks of the brother for a moment, a consolation prize-but he cannot make one forget and not the other. They are as bound as any spirit to any immovable object.

Instead-and he is ashamed to do it-he must away, before the sorrow overtakes him. He lands on top of the keep, looking out over the mountains, where he decides to do the only thing he can do. Pray to Fen'Harel. Pray that he return to help Zanna Brethil. Or if not, at least come back so he and Cole can talk. It was nice, having someone who understood. Having a friend.

* * *

Can't trust elves. No, not anymore. First Barrett was robbed, then Otter beaten, then the blacksmith, murdered by his own apprentice. Can't blame a man for wanting more, even when he's a knife ear, but they all want what the humans have now. Not the same, the exact, for them to have and humans to not. Man's got to protect himself, except... Maker, one's a mage? And the other looks like she knows how to use that bow. Is that an axe the shaggy one's holding? Where did the filthy beggar even get a sword? Why are both of them standing to help two elves? Well, no matter, since the rest of the tavern's on their feet now, daggers gleaming-

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Cole is relieved when Varric enters. Too much fear here, too much confusion. Even if he were to try and help, he has no idea where to begin.

"Everybody calm down!" Hands up, eyes wide, searching those cold blue eyes for his old friend. "Corff, this is Merrill. You remember Merrill. She left her clan when she came to Kirkwall. She's been... traveling, but now she's back, and all she wants is a drink."

Merrill's staff, pointed at the barkeep, does not move. "You know I don't drink,"

Ah, Daisy. He's missed you. "Alone, that's right. That's why you brought a friend. This is Kallian, from the Wycome alienage. You heard what happened in Wycome?"

Corff lowers his bucket, searching her face for sorrow. He finds plenty. Still, he doesn't yet feel safe. "And what of these two, then?"

"What of us?" Blackwall. Thom. Feels almost at home with these ragged furs against bare skin. Like what he deserves. "Thought we'd lend a few hands, but if you don't need them..."

"He doesn't need them." Fear bleeds through a little in the form of impatience. "Because this is all just a misunderstanding. Right, Corff?"

_You are a good man. You trust Varric. You owe him, after how he helped you with Norah. _It isn't forgetting, just reminding. Cole can do that too.

Corff sighs, drops the bucket on the floor. Arrows return to their quivers, daggers and swords to their sheaths, staves and axes to backs. Some grumble, sorry to have lost an excuse for a fight. Some leave, disgusted.

"Thank you." Adriel. The Inquisitor. Knows Zanna would rather bite her tongue than thank a _shem _for anything. Perhaps she is a proper leader. Perhaps she is a proper elf.

Corff just nods, finished pouring himself a drink, goes in the back to down it and compose himself. Varric breathes.

"Tell Curly and Captain Rainier to go outside and make themselves look a little less ridiculous," he instructs Leliana. "Then they can come back in and meet us upstairs."

Well, how was she to know what was ridiculous or not, in this new world? But Leliana is a professional, goes to Blackwall and does as the dwarf asked. Cole does not follow him or Cullen outside (though he does feel the commander's great relief that he has permission to wash his face) but instead goes upstairs, where Varric has led Adriel, Merrill, Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana.

"Normally I'd be thrilled to find myself alone in a room with five women." They are not amused, not even the Inquisitor, he can see that immediately. "I am thrilled, I mean. This complicates my personal life quite a bit, but I am."

"I'm sorry I never answered your letters." Merrill. Cole has only just met her, but he likes her. She reminds him of Solas, sees things differently than most.

"Ah, that's all right, Daisy." Absurdity hits him the moment it's out. "No, it's not, what am I saying? Where have you been? Where have you _all _been?"

"When Skyhold fell, we ran into the _eluvian,_" the Inquisitor answers. "Zanna never figured out how to open it, I suppose."

"I was in my _eluvian _too_,_" Merrill adds. Embarrassed, angry she is so. "Exploring."

"And while we were inside, ten years passed, apparently," Leliana is short, cannot help it. Grateful she is at least among friends when it happens.

"It has, yes?" Josephine. Foolish hopes. "It is nine fifty one Dragon?"

"'Fraid so, Ruffles." Varric sighs. "I take it you didn't know that would happen when you ran in there?"

"Did this happen when you entered with the witch, Morrigan?" Cassandra asks the Inquisitor.

Wonders where the witch went, if she knew what she was doing when she left the _eluvian _behind. Can't decide whether to be grateful to her or not. "We were only inside for a matter of minutes, but I don't think so. Perhaps she used some kind of magic to keep it from happening."

"It's for the best," Varric reassures her.

Orlesians accents make bitterness sound sweet. "Easy for you to say."

"Zanna thinks you're either long dead or living a quiet life up in the Frostbacks. She won't be looking for you."

The name does not frighten them. But it does bring sadness, anger, regret, frustration. "Then she still lives?" Cassandra asks.

"Lives." Varric snorts. "She rules. Orlais is hers now."

Leliana can now count on two hands the number of times she has been shocked. "What?"

"Empress Celene is dead. Val Royeaux is Dalvhenen now. Celene's old regrets about Briala made her too trusting, people say. I say it's hard for an empress whose own people barely supported her to fight off an army of united Dalish clans. Didn't help when every servant and city elf pissed about Briala's execution rose up to join them."

The Inquisitor. Her life is nothing but guilt now, endless guilt. "It wasn't her decision to execute Briala."

Varric sighs. Hates to see her like this. Hates to see them all like this, including himself. "Nobody knows that. Which was the idea, at the time, and a good one."

Josephine can barely keep her breathing even. "And Ferelden? The Free Marches? Nevarra, Tevinter?"

"Antiva? Don't start panicking. It took the elves a long time to lose the whole world, it'll take them just as long to get it back." Catches a glimpse of the Inquisitor, regrets it just for a moment, then decides she can take it, deserves to be treated like this won't define the rest of her life. However long that might be. "Give me some answers now. Is this really it? Nobody else made it out?"

"Is there someone you're wondering about in particular?" Blackwall and Cullen have returned, dressed like themselves again, yet not themselves. Cullen swears there is still a layer of slime on his face. Blackwall feels naked without his beard.

"Cabot. Maryden. Elan, Dagna, Harrit... Gatsi, even. He never shut up about the trowel work, but still-"

"If Skyhold fell, Master Dennet was instructed to take the horses and lead everyone he could into the mountains," Cullen answers. "I confess I don't know if he had the chance."

Varric tells himself he wouldn't call any of them friends, knows he's kidding himself. Even his enemies are acquaintances. His friends are family and everyone else are friends. And how he cares for his friends, even those far away. Hawke, Fenris, Bethany, Sebastian, Isabela, Tallis, Dorian, Solas, Vivienne, Sera-

"And me," Cole shouts. They all look up, and he realizes he is in the rafters, where boys don't belong. "I'm here. I'm alive."


	5. Chapter 5

_"And me," Cole shouts. "I'm here. I'm alive."_

Adriel is so happy to see Cole. She knew he couldn't be dead, knew that even if they all died of old age in the eluvianhe would still be all right. She intends to enjoy being happy for as long as it lasts. Unfortunately, it lasts only until the end of that thought, which reminds her that her moments of happiness are few and far between, which makes her think of why that is, which sets the words to ringing in her ears once again.

_We are the last of the elvhenen, and never again shall we submit._

Val Royeaux, an elven city. Dalvhenen, the beloved Dales. Zanna couldn't have made it clearer if she'd posted signs on the city gates that read, "Property of the Dalish." Perhaps she has. The elvhenen rule Orlais, possibly other lands (Varric hasn't elaborated yet). There have probably been Dalish children born in these ten years who have never seen an aravel, never fed a halla, never known falling asleep in one place and waking in another. The thought makes her sad, but why? This is what her people want. The new culture the Dalish built was apparently never meant to be permanent. Everything she has ever known has been a lie.

"You say the elves have Orlais." Cullen. His voice is the only one that lifts her out of her thoughts now. Maybe his is the only one she allows to. "They clearly haven't reached Kirkwall, at least."

Varric lifts his eyebrows with an additional shrug of his hand. "Not for lack of trying. When they failed to make any significant moves into Ferelden after a few years, they swung north and decided to have a go at the Marches. They own Ostwick and destroyed Wycome with the help of the alienage. One too many elves lost to Duke Antoine's lyrium 'solution.'"

Cole shakes his head sadly from where he is perched on the railing. "Red feelings, red urges, red faces until it's all they can see. They died screaming."

"I told you we should have made time for that," Leliana mutters to Josephine. But it was Inquisitor Lavellan who decided what they had time for. Every time Keeper Deshanna wrote her a letter, she sent whatever they needed. Why did she deny the elves of Wycome? Were they truly too busy? Or didn't she think the flat ears deserved her help?

_We are the last of the elvhenen, and never again shall we submit._

"They've never come close to taking Kirkwall, but life here isn't exactly peaceful," Varric continues. "No one trusts elves anymore, so the alienage is like a prison camp. The only elves allowed in Hightown anymore are the ones who work there, and there aren't a lot of those anymore either. No one wants to be called a knifelicker." He makes a pained face as he looks from Merrill to Adriel. "An elven sympathizer."

Suddenly bound by being the other. Adriel has only just met Merrill, but imagines she also both resents her and thanks the gods for her.

"Naturally, the elves aren't entirely thrilled with the situation, so they take their revenge where they can get it. And so it goes, until either whole alienages are wiped out and or the Dalish come to the rescue."

"How do the Dalish feel about fighting for flat ears?" Leliana asks.

"You'd have to ask one. But if what they want is to resurrect the Dales, it'll be slow going if they keep stopping to liberate alienages. Zanna still seems to think we shems spend all our free time beating them. With all the reprisals, it's becoming a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Adriel knows now that her people-Clan Lavellan, not the Dalish-never truly believed in dealing fairly, living free. Those were always her own values, apparently. She would like to believe she is in the right, but after everything that's happened, how can she believe that? How can she even tell herself she believes it?

_We are the last of the elvhenen, and never again shall we submit._

"Surely the Chantry still stands," Blackwall says. "What of Vivienne-I mean, Divine Victoria?"

Varric snorts. "What about her? I haven't laid eyes on the Divine since she was sleeping up in the balcony."

"Answer the question," Leliana snaps. She doesn't even try to look surprised by her own annoyance, which must mean she is very annoyed indeed.

"The Chantry made peace with the elves not long after Orlais fell," the dwarf answers. He sounds as guilty about it as Adriel feels. "The elves don't seem to hate our god, just us."

"Bigger fish to fry!" Cole suddenly calls out, chuckling with delight as if he's finally gotten it.

Blackwall gulps down the ale as soon as it is brought. "Doesn't mean she can't turn her head again, when she hears."

Varric says nothing, but Adriel knows what he is thinking, because she is thinking it herself. Hears what? That a ragtag group of survivors from a battle already a decade old have returned? Vivienne will probably throw a party, invite them and Zanna, and then wave goodbye as the elves lead them out in chains.

"Whatever allies we have left, we must make contact with them," Josephine says. Adriel can almost see her thought process too: _a meeting somewhere secure, Kirkwall perhaps, the best food, armed guards (hired, of course) to show our strength-_

Varric sighs again. "It's been ten years, Ruffles. Half the lords you buttered up at Skyhold are dead. Anyone you had in Orlais is out, obviously. This table might be all the allies you had left."

"Then... the Inquisition..." Cassandra's voice could break her heart, if it wasn't already broken.

"Gone. Not a trace left. Most kids don't even know what it was."

The table falls silent. It's a bitter thing to feel relieved, but that is how Adriel feels. Perhaps now they have a taste of what it feels like, to lose the world you knew. The feeling lingers in the air until Merrill finally speaks. "Is anyone going to tell me what this Inquisition is? Or was?"

No one answers. Adriel realizes a moment later (when several pairs of eyes flicker up to her) that they are waiting for the Inquisitor to answer.

"It _is-_" she says it not because she believes, but to hopefully soften the look on Cassandra's face, "-a force for change in Thedas. To put aside mage, templar, apostate, and build something better. For the sake of all men, not just Fereldans or Orlesians or the dwarves or the Dalish."

The only other Dalish at the table absorbs this for a moment. "But the Dalish didn't like that."

_We are the last of the elvhenen, and never again shall we submit. _This is what the elvhenen wanted. This is what they deserve. This is what she tried and failed to deny them. She is a disgrace to Dirthamen. She is no last of anything-

"No." Cullen saves Adriel from having to reply. His hand on her knee under the table saves her from weeping in front of them all. "No, they didn't."

* * *

Two figures before a blue sun. Or is it the moon? Are the figures friends, or enemies? Gods, or mortals? Knowing Solas, the answers are nothing so simple. Adriel could ask the Keepers, whom she has noticed studying the paintings with equal parts fascination and concern. They are gathered in the library above her now, discussing everything she's told them. Her heart used to swell with pride when she managed to impress Keeper Deshanna. Impressing all the Keepers... well, her heart feels fit to burst.

But mixed in with the pride is guilt. If Solas knew she was holding an arlathvhen in his study... but it isn't his study anymore, is it? He left it behind, left all of them behind, and for what? The loss of one of a thousand elven relics Corypheus used to almost destroy the world? Was his endless despise for the Dalish all an act? It certainly seems like one, standing in this room. Many of these painted scenes are unfamiliar to her, but some of them aren't. In them, she sees her gods, her people, herself. The Dalish have no chantries, but if they did, they might look like this. For all his self-loathing, it seems Solas was an elf after all.

But that isn't the core of it, she knows. She never got a chance to really examine these walls until Solas left. She had never felt comfortable enough to spend time in here with him; most if not all of their conversations had ended in her storming off. She couldn't call him a friend. But whatever his opinions of the Dalish, even if his only contribution would have been to condemn them all, Solas would have enjoyed this. And she can't help but feel guilty for any part she might have played in driving him away.

"Inquisitor?"

When she was just Adriel Lavellan, only a young girl at the only arlathvhen that happened in her lifetime, she thought only the Keepers met behind closed doors while she played and fought with the other children. But apparently the Firsts are allowed to listen to the el dirth, and only then do the Keepers leave them behind to speak privately. It is Zanna, one of the Firsts of Clan Brethil, who stands before Adriel now.

"You don't have to call me that," she says, giving the woman a smile. "Aneth ara. Call me Adriel."

Zanna smiles back, looking relieved. She is about Adriel's age. "I was afraid you were going to say you preferred 'My lady'.'"

"Only from the shemlen."

They share a laugh at that, but then the First looks serious again. "This castle. That throne. All these people, following your commands... how did you get here?"

Adriel's hand flexes involuntarily. When it isn't glowing, the mark looks like an old scar, running the length of an existing line in her palm. People always look disappointed when they see it. "Luck, I'm afraid."

"Good or bad?"

Corypheus was the only bad, and he is gone forever. "Good, of course. I couldn't imagine my life without the Inquisition. I mean, I could... I wouldn't want it, though."

Zanna's brow furrows. "And the shemlen don't mind that you're an elf?"

"No one's ever said anything." Which technically doesn't prove anything, but she cannot even pick someone to suspect out of Skyhold's complement.

The Brethil First's brow is unmoved. "You aren't lonely? You're the only elf here."

Adriel can't help but laugh. "No, I'm not. There's Elan, and Minaeve, and Loranil-"

"The only Lavellan, I mean."

"No. I consider everyone at Skyhold my friend." Her clan, even, maybe more so than Clan Lavellan now. Her own aunt and uncle bowed stiffly to her when she came running to greet them.

"Has it helped the Inquisition, being an elf?" Zanna asks.

Would a human or a dwarf have made as much sense of the orb and Abelas, Mythal and the vir'abelesan? Adriel isn't sure what sense she's made of them herself. The Keepers listened patiently, impassively to her accounts, but the sudden rise and fall of their conversation upstairs implies they feel more strongly about it than they let on. She wishes once more she had been brave enough to drink from the well herself, to hear the voices of the gods. But Solas was so violently adamant about the consequences, and there is so much here she would despair to lose.

"I think the Inquisition wouldn't exist if things hadn't happened as they did," she answers. "I hope it's not immodest to say that includes me."

"So you're happy here? You wouldn't leave, if you could?"

The woman seems only more frustrated by her answers, which puzzles Adriel. "Have I done something to make you think I'm not?"

"No," Zanna allows. "It's just... all these shemlen. If you wanted to leave, but they wanted you to stay..." She steps closer, lowers her voice, grasps Adriel's arm. Though they have only just met, there is all the earnest concern of a beloved friend in her eyes. "The commander. He watches you, all the time. It might not always be so safe here, for you."

This time, Adriel stifles her laughter. She grasps Zanna's hand in gratitude for her well-meant but absolutely absurd fears. "Of course he does. He's my husband."

The First stares back at her, features frozen in surprise. "Your husband?"

"Shh," Adriel admonishes, though if she were the only partner in this enterprise, she would have shouted it from the ramparts. "Only you, Mother Giselle, us, and the Maker know. We couldn't wait." Or they could have, but Josephine would have insisted on an official function with a carefully hand-picked guest list, and Leliana would have advised them to wait so they didn't lose the support of the Orlesian ladies still hoping to snare Cullen themselves, and Deshanna would have written back saying it was all well and good but without her and the trees and the gods, Adriel was a maiden still no matter what Andraste said. All that will come in time, but what they have now, when she catches his eye across a room-

"You married a shem?" Zanna asks again. "In the Chantry?"

Is it the look on the First's face specifically, or that look in conjunction with the looks Adriel has received from countless elves since they arrived? Regardless, she has to make a conscious effort to remain civil. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Zanna replies. It is hard to tell whether she immediately turns and walks away because the Keepers can be heard on the stairs, or because she's lying. It's only when she does that Adriel notices her vallaslin-made to honor Mythal.

* * *

"Have they any food here?"

Cullen's voice again. If anything important has been said in the interim, Adriel has missed it.

"They have," Varric replies, one arm slung over the back of his chair. "I wouldn't eat it, though."

Leliana is the only one still sitting up straight and clear-eyed. "You never had occasion to come here when you were a Templar?"

"Not a hungry one," Adriel's husband replies, draining the last of his drink as if that will fill his stomach instead. Blackwall is sprawled across the table, snoring. Josephine is not quite asleep, but she certainly isn't here. She stares bleakly at the wall, her head resting on her hand. Cole has vanished again. So has Merrill, but no one seems concerned.

"I never thought to find myself in Kirkwall again," Cassandra murmurs.

"Not a bad place to end up, all things considered," Varric says. "You could have popped out back at whatever's left of Skyhold, or at that elven temple with the wading pool, or wandered around inside Mirrorworld for another few decades."

"And yet, I am not cheered."

Is it a virtue or another of Adriel's faults that she cannot help but laugh at the Seeker's deadpan tone? Before she can consider it further, everyone looks over at her, surprised, and she feels compelled to speak. "Varric's right. We're all alive, and we're together. We should be grateful."

Cullen smiles and raises his glass. "Hear, hear." He is clearly too heartened to remember that it's empty. The rest of the table toasts with him anyway, draining their own cups.

"You stinking whoreson bastard-" The words float up from the staircase. A human woman appears, middle aged but still noticeably attractive, clad in huge clomping boots, a long coat, and the remnants of what she was wearing before someone must have stolen the rest. She stops in a huff at the top of the stairs, one hand on her hip and the other gripping the banister, looking outraged with Varric.

Upon seeing her, Cullen immediately leans in close to Adriel. "I know her," he whispers. "She's a friend, but-"

"You couldn't even wait ten minutes for me?" the woman protests, loudly enough that Adriel cannot make out the rest of what Cullen is trying to say. "I had cargo to unload, crewmen to fire, supplies to buy..."

Varric smacks himself in the forehead. "Damn it, I completely forgot."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Months of salt-soaked letters in bottles and shit-caked notes in raven claws and you forgot. Remind me never to drop anchor here again."

Varric only smirks, making it clear that's an empty threat. He sweeps his arm across the table. "Isabela, the Inquisition. Inquisition, Isabela."

"We do have names," Cassandra says, lifting her eyebrow when the woman reaches for the bottle still grasped in Blackwall's hand and yanks it free to drink. The false Warden stirs at the disruption, blinking and coughing as he sits up.

"The Inquisition, eh?" Isabela says, sipping thoughtfully. "I think I knew what that was, once." She points at Adriel first. "You're the only elf, so you must be the Inquisitor." Her finger moves to Leliana. "The Housemartin or whatever they call you." She smirks when she gets to Cassandra. "You're the bitch who dragged Varric across the Waking Sea because you didn't like his answers to your questions. I'm told you like his writing now, though, which is apparently reason enough not to kill you." Her finger moves again to Josephine. "Pretty." It passes over Blackwall with only a moment's pause and no commentary.

"Isabela," Cullen preempts her.

"Cullen!" the woman replies in surprise and delight. She lowers her hand back to her hip and looks him up and down. "Are you looking particularly fresh tonight, or have I been at sea too long?"

The commander does not answer this, but instead turns to Adriel and tries to speak again. "We've met-"

"At the hips," Isabela clarifies with a grin.


	6. Chapter 6

_"We've met-" _

_But the Commander is cut off by the pirate woman, who grins. "At the hips."_

The romance novel lover in Cassandra is filled with irrational anger at Cullen on the Inquisitor's behalf. That same woman is also dying to see her reaction. But Adriel seems calm, intrigued, perhaps even amused. Cassandra is disgusted with her own disappointment.

"Yes," Cullen acknowledges, without any visible sorrow or embarrassment (the cad!) "You were much younger then."

Isabela rolls her eyes, seating herself on the table. "And you were a lot thinner. Those furs aren't doing you any favors."

"Oh, yeah," Varric muses, rubbing his chin. "I forgot about you two."

"They were a couple, then?" the Inquisitor asks, much more pleasantly than Cassandra would, in her position.

"No, we were not," Cullen replies.

"It was purely for his sexual education," Isabela clarifies. She leans in conspiratorially. "You're welcome."

The Inquisitor laughs. "Did he need many lessons?"

"Perhaps you would prefer to have this conversation in private?" Cassandra offers. "The rest of us could leave."

"Not me," Leliana says, looking much cheerier. "I want to hear this."

"As do I," Josephine agrees, sitting up straighter.

Even Blackwall joins in, to Cassandra's surprise. "I wasn't aware this was new information."

The pirate woman laughs, crossing her mostly bare legs in full view of them all (the brazen hussy!) "I don't see how you'd know, unless it was from experience. Are you buggering men now too, Knight-Captain?"

"It's kind of you to defend me," Cullen replies archly, "but on this subject, I couldn't care less what the table thinks."

"Oh?" the Inquisitor says, eyes flickering very deliberately down at the table.

The Commander only smiles and takes her hand, upon which the Inquisitor smiles back. Whatever passes between them makes Cassandra's inner romance novel lover sigh in spite of herself.

"You two certainly know how to kill a joke," Isabela observes, finally turning her attention back to Varric. "So, your new friends show up and you immediately forget your old ones, is that it?"

"It's a little more complicated than that," the dwarf sighs, "what with them all being presumed dead."

"And ten years having passed in a flash," Blackwall murmurs, looking in vain for a last sip of ale in his mug.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, and further, don't care," Isabela declares. She punches Varric in the shoulder, hard enough to make the dwarf wince. "Don't forget me again."

"Nice form!"

Bull and Merrill have returned, the latter looking none too pleased with the Qunari. Cassandra assumes he has broken something very old and very valuable to the elven apostate.

"Right in that soft spot between the shoulderblade and the collarbone," Bull adds, coming up behind Varric. "The same spot's good from the back-" He demonstrates in slow motion, touching his fist to the dwarf, who tried to shrug him off. "-but it'll hurt you more."

"Not me," Isabela says, looking the Qunari up and down and then smirking at him. "I'm much tougher than I look." The romance novel lover in Cassandra unfortunately knows exactly what the pirate woman is thinking.

Bull grins back, pushing Cullen off his chair to sit next to Isabela. "Really? 'Cause you look pretty tough already."

"This will do too," Josephine murmurs to Leliana, who nods in agreement.

* * *

Emprise du Lion has come far, with the Inquisitor's help. No longer are there only scattered fortifications and tents across its wintry landscape. New buildings have been constructed, old ones repaired, trade routes reopened. Suledin Keep rises high above it all, standing vigil against any who might threaten this place again. Cassandra has never felt prouder.

But, that was true of yesterday, and the day before, and all the days preceding. Every day, she finds a new reason to be proud of the work they're doing, to believe completely that calling the Inquisition was the right thing to do. She can't claim to have always been so certain about the Inquisitor, but she feels so today. Clan Brethil has overstepped its bounds in Emprise du Lion. Instead of immediately siding with her people, Adriel Lavellan has chosen to honor the rights of those who call this place home-and come to deliver that message personally to the elves. Cassandra wonders if any other elf could be so objective. Solas, perhaps. He had no love for the Dalish.

"Have I ever mentioned how warm it is on Par Vollen?" Bull grumbles, shrugging his fur-lined cloak about him.

"I would think you'd be happy to be back here, Bull," the Inquisitor remarks. "We killed three dragons just over that bridge."

"I was sweating then. There was the promise of sweat."

"Let us hope we will do no sweating today," Cassandra says.

"I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding," Adriel reassures them. And indeed, she doesn't look the slightest bit worried.

Perhaps they should be grateful that this is the first misunderstanding they have heard of. The Keepers' response to the _arlathvhen _held at Skyhold seemed, in theory, quite reasonable. As a people, they would pledge to investigate the ruins of their civilization, and see for themselves if what the Inquisitor told them was true. As they have learned through their own travels, many ruins are abandoned, on the outskirts or in the wastes of otherwise inhabited lands. But others, like _Melava'an_, are very near (or even part of) settled areas. It would be no wonder if the elves didn't occasionally step on some non-elven toes.

"What is this place they're after?" Blackwall asks, looking not a bit bothered by the cold. Perhaps there are benefits to his hirsute look besides anonymity. "Will it actually help them learn anything?"

"As much as any other place has taught us," the Inquisitor replies. "_Melava'an_ means Place of Yesterday. But everyone who knew what might have happened here yesterday is long dead."

"Or wandering the world, crying for lack of an orb," Cassandra cannot help saying.

"He probably just wanted a woman," Bull snorts. "It's slim pickings at Skyhold if you're after an elf. You sure weren't interested, boss."

The Inquisitor scoffs. "No. Perhaps I should have pretended, if only to keep a historian around."

"Or a mage," Blackwall points out.

It is a fair point. Few mages opted to join the Inquisition after they learned the Templars had. But aside from Dorian, Cassandra cannot say they are missing much.

Finally, they come upon _Melava'an_-or rather; the human village of Vierna that has sprung around it. There are far more elves than people. They are all armed, standing as if on guard while the villagers warily go about their lives. The Inquisitor has stopped at the gate, taking in the scene. There seems to be plenty of time for Cassandra to speak, but just as she opens her mouth, the Inquisitor preempts her.

"_Aneth ara_," she calls to the nearest elf. "Where is Keeper Avorel?"

The answer is in elvish, but the cock of his head towards the ruins of _Melava'an_ itself is context enough. Cassandra and the others follow the Inquisitor inside, where they find a human man working at a desk. Standing around him, studying the walls or the floor or the man himself are three elves-two male, one female.

"Keeper Avorel, Zanna, Daryth," the Inquisitor says to the elves in turn. She must remember them from the meeting. Cassandra is ashamed to admit all the elves looked too alike to her to do the same.

The Inquisitor is looking at the human at the desk now. "I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced."

"Mayor Emile," the man all but grumbles, only a slight accent detectable under his age and gruff. "Of what, I don't know anymore."

"This is Inquisitor Lavellan," Cassandra informs him. She really must speak to Adriel about when to be courteous and when to use the full weight her title. "We have come at your request."

"Good," Emile fires back, dropping his pen and looking up. "Tell this band of thieves to leave Vierna and go back where they came from."

"This _is_ where we come from," Daryth snaps.

"Why don't you and Keeper Avorel tell us what's happened here?" the Inquisitor says. She holds up her hand when both elf and man open their mouths at once. "One at a time, please."

"As we declared In the _arlathvhen_," the Keeper begins, oddly formal, "we must determine the truth about our past before we can make any decisions about our future." He casts his arm about the room. "_Melava'an_ is our past."

"_Our _past," Daryth repeats, staring Mayor Emile down.

"So you've come here to do what, rebuild?" Bull snorts, sending dust from a nearby pillar up into the air. "You've got your work cut out for you."

"We've come to study," Zanna says, looking at the Inquisitor even though she isn't the one who spoke. "To protect this place, and the sacred pieces inside it." She walks to an alcove set into one of the ancient, crumbling walls and picks up an equally crumbling sculpture.

"This is a _elgardurgen._ Feel how warm it is, even underground." She holds it out to the Inquisitor, who runs a hand over it. "Keeper Avorel believes one of the gods may have touched it."

Mayor Emile bristles. "If we went around staking claim on every little bush and tree and leaf Andraste might have touched, we'd own all of Thedas."

Blackwall snorts, though to his credit he buttons up when Cassandra glares at him.

"It's clearly not so simple, then?" the Inquisitor asks Emile.

"Vierna was settled shortly after the Inquisition drove the Red Templars out of Orlais," the mayor replies, rising from his desk and coming around to stand at equal distance from them as Zanna. "We've built new homes here, new lives. Elven traders have been through and never batted an eye. Then all of a sudden this band shows up, tells us we're trampling on sacred ground, which they're taking back for their people."

"How can we take back that which we never gave," Keeper Avorel murmurs, calm but firm.

"Sacred ground," Mayor Emile repeats with a sneer. "So sacred that none of you knife-ears gave a whit about it until we did-"

Daryth lifts his staff and starts as if to attack, but Zanna stops him.

"Slurs hardly help your cause," Cassandra says, not only because it is true but to spare the Inquisitor the responsibility.

"This is our home," Mayor Emile repeats, ignoring her. "And these... elves have all but threatened to run us out. To avoid blood, I asked the Inquisition to step in. You're here, you've stepped in it. What will you do?"

Inquisitor Adriel watches him for a moment. Then she looks to Keeper Avorel, Daryth, and finally Zanna. She seems to hold the other elven woman's gaze the longest.

"This is Vierna now," she finally says to the Keeper. "It may have been _Melava'an_ once, but that was a long time ago. Take what you like, study the place-but then Clan Brethil will be on its way, and leave these people in peace."

"Is that so, _Lavellan_?" Daryth snipes, making it sound like a slur too. "Who are you to tell the Brethil what we will or will not do-"

"As you say," Keeper Avorel replies, as calmly as he insisted this was his land to claim only moments ago. "We cannot fight the Inquisition."

"You could," Bull suggests, shrugging. "You'd lose, but you could."

"As soon as the _aravels_ are packed, we will be gone from this place," the elf tells Mayor Emile, who somehow manages to look both smug and stunned. Then he nods to the Inquisitor and looks at Zanna and Daryth, who exit the ruins first, followed by their Keeper.

_Strange, _Cassandra thinks, looking at the sculpture left sitting on the Mayor's desk. _They didn't even take their relic._

* * *

The book Cassandra is trying to read-one of Varric's, written during the ten years were inside the _eluvian-_fails to distract her. It might be terrible, or it might be brilliant-it isn't anything when every inner thought of the protagonist is interrupted by the passionate noises of the two couples in their rooms.

She closes the book with a sigh and rises from her chair against the wall, rejoining Varric, writing at the table. "I fail to see how any of this is arousing."

The dwarf chuckles, dipping his quill. "Really? I need to write you more smut."

There were only three rooms available at _The Hanged Man_ that evening. Cullen and the Inquisitor took one, Josephine the second (at Blackwall's both gallant and awkward insistence), and Bull and Isabela the third. Blackwall is snoring on a chair in the corner. Merrill has returned to her home. Leliana has gone in search of information, or perhaps just to be alone with her thoughts. Cassandra and Varric are the only ones left awake, or not otherwise occupied.

"If wanting a little romance makes me a prude, I suppose I'll wear that badge with pride," she says.

"Isabela's just having fun-" There is a huge thump that rattles a picture hanging on the wall, followed by a squeal and perhaps a growl.

"I think," Varric amends. "Curly and the Inquisitor, well... if my entire race finally set aside their differences and came together for the common purpose of destroying me, I might look for something to take my mind off that too."

It has never occurred to Cassandra to blame the Inquisitor for the current state of Thedas or the death of the Inquisition. It is clear she has already tried, sentenced, and hanged herself for the crime.

"Varric..." She shakes her head. "What will become of us?"

The dwarf sighs and puts down his quill.

"Well, I see three possible endings," he says, lifting his fingers to demonstrate. "One, you recede into the night. Find new identities, new professions-I've always thought you'd make a very fine tavern wench. Two, you try to take back what you've lost, and fail. It's tragic, but some of the best stories are. Three, you try to take back what you've lost and succeed. That's the most improbable ending, but plot was never my strong suit."

"I thought we had established I am a prude," Cassandra replies. "Surely they make poor wenches."

Varric laughs. "You only have to _want_ to sleep with them. Whether you do or not is a whole different story."

"Are you saying you want to sleep with me?"

"I value your readership far too much to sleep with you. It's hard to stay popular over ten years, you know."

She rolls her eyes, though she cannot help smiling too. "Perhaps it is time we all thought of what we planned to do when the Inquisition was no longer needed."

"I don't think anybody is saying it's no longer needed," Varric sighs. "Just that the odds of resurrecting it are slim to none."

* * *

Borrowed the inspired idea of Cullen and Isabela hooking up from the brilliant Dinah Lance/Siujerkjai!


End file.
